


the fire's out of guns

by hellstrider



Series: Scars 'verse [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After the battle, Anal Sex, Cock Tease, Cock Warming, I'm sorry my dude, It's a Contest see, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poor Jorah, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”“No, you don’t.” A muscle jumps in Jorah’s jaw. “You don’t have to lie, Snow. The dead don’t care about loyalty.”





	the fire's out of guns

**Author's Note:**

> heard y'all wanted more wholesome smut
> 
> the golden arm bands tor wears were spotted by my dear friend kru in the ep we first meet tor in and i can't stop thinking about them msjdbhfdusioaknvs
> 
> title, as always, say it with me!!!  
> is from scars by tove lo

“You’ve no idea what fucking _true fear_ feels like until you see death,” Tormund intones seriously, swaying towards his captive audience of wildlings, northmen and one incredibly amused-looking Ser Davos. “And that fucker was _death._ Who could _kill death_? Not even _dragonfire_ touched that cunt!”

A thick hand thumps into Jon’s chest and he grunts, unable to mask the laugh that slips from his lips. He shakes his head, but his gut flutters with warmth when those blue eyes fall over him, bright and fierce and _proud._

“Only Jon _fucking_ Snow could put a stop to death. And he did! I _saw it!”_

“Aye,” Davos huffs. “You did.”

Tormund looks – well, _wild_ – but also _incredible_ like this, ivory tunic tucked into his breeches and unstrung almost to his navel, scars and thick muscle on open display. There’s ale in his beard, drying snow slicking back his red hair from the brief bout of wrestling that took place in the courtyard – and Jon’s absolutely certain he heard Arya cheering them on quite viciously from the sidelines.

The beaten bands of gold around his forearms gleam in the firelight, and Jon can’t look away, mead making his heart light as a feather and the smiles come so easy. When the wildling slings an arm around him, Jon feels his ears go warm, and Davos shakes his head with a fond little smile hiding under his beard.

“He’s little,” Tormund says, shaking him firmly, “but he’s _strong._ He ran at death like a bear after a limp fucking doe and brought that cunt to his fucking _knees._ What other man could we call king?”

A round of cheers brings gooseflesh to Jon’s arms. He looks up to Tormund and the wildling hoists his drinking horn, sloshing ale everywhere when he bellows, “to the king in the north!”

The roar that answers that cry makes his stomach lurch. Davos lifts his flagon and tips his head, and Jon brings his own to his lips if only for something to do. He can feel the energy buzzing through his lover, knows there’ll soon be songs and probably more wrestling.

He’s probably going to have to drag Tormund to bed, he already knows. He’s kept himself to two humble flagons of mead, more than content to just revel in the sheer relief and overwhelming sense of a final victory that suffuses the Great Hall.

Tormund’s energy alone is enough to make him feel a little drunk – and the way the wildling keeps _looking_ at him, looking at him like he’s picturing the bruises he’s bitten across him every time he does, is far more intoxicating even than whiskey.

Underneath Jon’s brocade jerkin he’s a patina of purple and blue, the most tender wounds he’s ever worn. The insides of his thighs sting a little when Tormund leans into him where he sits on the high table, huge hand still closed possessively over his shoulder as he laughs and revels with the other men.

Jon has ale soaking his knee and the wildling smells of booze and the snow, but he wouldn’t move from this spot even if one of the dragons came crashing back into Winterfell. No one looks twice at the little king crow and his massive wildling built of fire and sunlight anymore; apart from Clegane, Tormund is the biggest man in Winterfell, and he’s far deadlier drunk than he is sober.

He’s safe, Jon thinks, curling a hand into the back of Tormund’s loose linen tunic. He’s safe. His sisters are here somewhere – he can see Sansa’s head of red hair where she stands with Theon and Clegane, and Arya is, as ever, out of sight but never far. Bran sits at the fire, watching it all with knowing eyes, and they’re _safe._

It’s so much. It’s so fucking much. Jon dares to tilt his head into Tormund’s arm, hiding a grin when the wildling all but dumps the remaining ale in his horn down his chest, and his gaze catches over a solitary figure sat in a corner.

“I’ll be back,” Jon murmurs, sliding with ease away from Tormund, who makes a swift pass over his ass with a subtle hand as he goes.

Jorah looks like he’s been scooped hollow. There are shadows under his eyes and his cheeks are sallow, the grip around his flagon limp and shaky. Jon’s gut twists when Mormont’s grey eyes lift to meet his, and part of him wishes they were full of hate instead of the horrible grief and weary acceptance he finds there.

“You’re healing well,” Jon says, sliding into the bench across from the exiled lord. “Despite your best efforts to the contrary, I’m told.”

There’s a long, lingering silence. Then, Jorah tilts his head. “Your wildling tried to reach her, you know.”

Jon’s heart flips in his chest and Jorah drinks deep from his flagon after hesitating a moment.

“There were,” the old knight rasps, “too many. But he tried.”

“I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

“No, you don’t.” A muscle jumps in Jorah’s jaw. “You don’t have to lie, Snow. The dead don’t care about loyalty.”

Jon folds his hands together. He can feel the weight of Tormund’s gaze, can feel the wildling all the way from where he sits. The wildling is charged and ever ready to rip into anything that looks too long at Jon, and he can only breathe evenly through his nose and try to stay lax.

“I want to hate you,” Jorah says then. “I really do. I want to blame you for it. For bringing her into the war of the dead.”

“But?”

The old bear shakes his head. For a moment, he looks so much like his father that Jon’s gut clenches with sorrow.

“It always would’ve become her war. She wanted to be Queen, but she never understood that she would inherit more than just a crown. I tried to guide her as best I could, but –“

He halts. His eyes are misty, and his jaw is tense, and Jon can only imagine how he feels. How it would feel to be sitting here, alive, while Tormund was in the ground. It makes his mouth go sour and Jon glances around towards where his wildling stands, whole and hale and alive.

“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.” Jorah is staring into some middle distance, one Jon can’t see. “She was tempestuous, willful. But I thought her kinder than her father, than her brother.”

A pause. A tear runs down Jorah’s grizzled cheek and he doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“She was going to burn him first,” he says quietly, and it’s like a confession; Jon’s heart surges into his mouth.

“You did the right thing, Snow. Bending the knee. It saved his life. Saved all their lives. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin, and I have to remember that Daenerys was reborn in fire when Khal Drogo died. The second time that coin landed… she was not the same.”

Jorah stands then, stoic and unflinching even though he knows his wound still must hurt. Jon looks up at Mormont, and thinks he’s looking old Jeor in the face again.

“I loved her,” Jorah says thickly. “Even despite it. Don’t pretend to mourn her, Jon Snow. I’ve told her Unsullied and those loyal to her what happened. No harm will come to you now. No need to try and shed a tear for a woman you’ll never miss.”

The old knight leaves him in a wild tangle of emotion, his throat thick and his chest tight. Then, a wry voice comes, and he nearly jumps as Tyrion Lannister sidles into sight, watching as Jorah leaves.

“He’s a grim sort of beast, isn’t he?”

“Understandably,” Jon says, and Tyrion quirks a brow.

He eyes Jon for a moment, then reaches for a nearby pitcher and goblet. The dwarf offers out the wine and Jon, if for no other reason than just to hold something, takes it.

“Don’t fret, Jon Snow,” Tyrion says blithely, pouring himself more wine, “Mormont spoke true. Grey Worm and Missandei sail for Naath at dawn. No one will come for your head. This was a war, and in war, people die.”

“Still. I don’t revel in it.”

“I know that. You went to the wall to fight dead things, not the living.” Tyrion leans back against a pillar, watching him with too-clever eyes despite the slight haze of inebriation that surrounds him. “He also didn’t lie when he said she would have turned your wildling to ash. Our queen’s fits of madness were subtle, but they were no less dangerous than her father’s.”

Jon’s stomach swoops, and it’s not because of the alcohol.

 _Your name is Aegon Targaryen. You’re not a bastard. You’ve never_ been _a bastard._

A small but strong hand grips his shoulder and Jon looks up from his goblet. Tyrion’s gaze is knowing, too knowing, but in a way that he doesn’t think he has to fear.

“The gods flip a coin _whenever_ blood fucks blood,” Tyrion says. “I’ve had a nephew that enjoyed tormenting whores more than fucking them. But I’ve also had a niece that was gentler than even the summer wind, and another nephew that saved any stray creature he came across.”

The dwarf leans in then, smelling of spices and wine.

“You are, at the end of the day, still Ned Stark’s son. Don’t forget it.”

And then he’s sidling off, humming to himself as he weaves through the crowd to where Jaime sits with Brienne and Podrick. Suddenly feeling a little light-headed, Jon rises from his seat and slips out of the Great Hall, weaves through the darkened corridors and out into the snowy night.

The revelry outside is just as raucous, if not more so. Music, laughter and the sound of rabblerousing pierces the air, and somewhere, he can hear Ghost howling along with the long, strung out note of a song.

Jon finds a small nook near the kennels, the one where he used to hide when he was a boy and Catelyn became a force he feared. He leans back against the wall and breathes in as deep as he can. They’re alive. They’re alive, and he’s _not_ going mad.

He is Ned Stark’s son. Whatever his true parentage, he is the son of the man who raised him to be good, and true. Who raised him to mourn his enemy’s death as much as he mourned a friend’s.

Jon Snow is a wolf, and the only madness he’ll give into is the feral need to protect what is his.

Wood-spice-smoke and the scent of ale and snow washes over Jon, and a gentle, calloused hand slides over the side of his throat. It feels like a deliverance and he leans into it, lets that touch wash through his chest and turn the fire to softest water. Jon opens his eyes to meet sea-blue, and the gentle happiness that kept him in the Great Hall starts to creep back in.

“Who do I need to fight?” Tormund asks, growl tempered somewhat by a slight slur.

Jon doesn’t try to stop the smile that comes. He huffs and drags the wildling in by the open collar of his tunic, kissing him despite the ale in his beard. It reminds him of the nights spent in the far north, in the white and the wild, when Tormund would shout his grand stories and try and wrestle Jon into drinking more than he could hold. Warmth spreads through his gut.

“We’ve had enough fighting,” Jon says, “no one needs to be fought.”

“Oho, little crow,” the wildling laughs, “someone _always_ needs to be fought. Especially if they put that look on your sweet face. What did the bear-knight say to you?”

“Nothing I want to think about now. Not tonight.”

“Are you safe? Tell me that, at least. Before this becomes a real wildling celebration.”

The warmth in his stomach reaches with gentle fingers into his chest. He reaches up to thumb over Tormund’s cheek then and when he kisses him, it’s slow, deep, and draws another growl from the pit of the wildling’s gut.

He lets the aftermath of the war fade, because he has this – he _fought_ for this, and he _won_. He _died_ for this only to come back and find the courage to claim it, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t soak in it every fucking moment he gets.

“I’m with _you_ ,” Jon says wryly, because it never fails to rile the man, “I’m always safe with you.”

Tormund’s eyes go dark then, and he slides his arms low to haul Jon up from the ground. He sways tipsily back and Jon melts into him, trusting that even like this, his wildling would never let him fall - and he doesn’t. Tormund noses over his throat, strong legs steady when he hefts Jon higher, gathering him up and keeping him in the circle of his arms, the safest place he’s ever been.

“Make me stop thinking, Tor,” he breathes, and the wildling sucks behind his ear, making his entire right side ignite in a spread of tingling fire. “ _Fuck.”_

A low, pleased burr rolls through him, setting off a flash of heat through Jon’s gut. Tormund nuzzles down under Jon’s collar and when he nips over his pulse, his cock stirs in his breeches and he catches a low moan behind his teeth.

Jon bites down on his lip and presses his knees to the wildling’s ribs, heart fluttering as fast as a hummingbird’s wings in his throat when Tormund pushes him back to the wall. He’s huge and hard between his legs, strong in a way only mountains can be, and Jon is utterly addicted to the way he splays a hand over his throat to push his chin up and out of his way.

“You look so _proper_ in front of your northern lords,” he growls, and Jon thinks he might come undone just from the burr of his voice against him, “only _I_ know what kind of a beast you hide, Jon Snow. What a _feral_ thing you become when I fuck you right.”

Jon thinks he might black out for a heartbeat; he chokes on a gasp, hips rutting forward in a slow, aching crest as his wildling breathes out over his throat. The words burn through him and he thinks of the _madness_ of the dragon beneath the wolf in him, thinks of how terrible it could be but how undeniably _sweet_ it is whenever he tastes it.

It’s sweet, he thinks, because between Tormund’s hands his fire-laced savagery is turned to gold. The beast in his chest is matched only by the one in the wildling, matched with horns just as fierce and a grin full of fangs that can bite down into the darkest parts of him and set them free. That beast revels in his madness, and between Tormund’s hands, Jon is set free.

He curls a hand into the wildling’s tunic and drags him as close as he can, thighs aching and spread wide. When he seals their mouths together, he never wants to come up for air. Jon is fully hard and aching as he tangles a hand into Tormund’s snow-damp hair, clinging to the wildling even as the sheer bulk of him keeps him suspended against the wall.

His head spins, and he doesn’t remember why he was even out here in the first place. Why he ever slipped away from the high table, Tormund between his thighs in front of the entire hall as his wildling held him close.

“Wanted to put my hands on you in front of all of them,” Tormund murmurs, mouthing over the front of his throat, and Jon nearly whimpers with it. “So they would all know who you belong to. I want the world to see the mess I’ve made of you.”

Tucked away they may be, but they’re still out in the open. Jon is thrilled by it as much as he’s terrified by it, and his heart is a war drum as he slides a hand into Tormund’s tunic and pushes it away to reveal a huge shoulder.

It’s started to snow again, dusting the ground and their hair in white, and as Jon gazes down into blue, blue eyes, the cacophony of the celebrations fade until this is all he knows.

Part of him wants to hide this away behind closed doors, never speak of it – but the other part, the braver part, wants to be able to drag him down and kiss him breathless whenever he wants.

When they go north, he thinks, tracing the wildling’s bottom lip with a thumb – the true north, free now of the dead, unfettered by kings and the rules that make no sense - he will let Tormund take him anywhere he wants.

“You say you want them to see the mess you’ve made of me,” he says, and Tormund’s gaze is so bright and so intense in the light of the moon, “but all they’d see is how you’ve set me free. All they’d see is how strong you make me.”

Tormund makes a sound like he’s being strangled, and the kiss that comes after is all teeth and tongue, desperate and filthy and more intoxicating than any mead or wine ever could be. Jon groans when a huge hand cups him through his breeches, and he digs his heels into the backs of the wildling’s thighs.

How they make it back to their rooms, Jon will never know. The door’s barely shut before he’s being crowded back against it, and Tormund is through his brocade jerkin and breeches in less time than it takes Jon himself to strip out of them. He kicks out of his boots and Tormund hauls him up, strong hands pulling at his hips until Jon wraps his legs around him.

Beaten bands of gold roll cold and glittering over Jon’s skin when he slides his hands down to clutch at his ass, and he digs his fingers into the wildling’s ribs, gasping when he mouths over his ear and bites hard at his throat.

“You want to be fucked, little crow?”

“You keep asking questions with obvious answers, Tor, and I –“

He presses his thumb under Jon’s chin, cutting him off, and Jon swallows hard as those piercing blue eyes grow steel. He flushes with heat, and he really won’t last long – not that Tormund will let him hit just one peak.

“You have to ask, sweet thing,” the wildling growls, low and soft, “and you have to mean it.”

“I’m not _asking_ you,” Jon says, “I’m telling you.”

“An order?”

“If you like.”

Jon is pulled away from the door, and his stomach lodges up in his lungs.

They fall to the bed in a gasping fumble, and while Tormund is strong, Jon is quick. He slips out beneath the wildling’s bulk and gently twists his arm until he’s sat on the edge of the bed, Jon straddling his thighs and panting soft and quick against his lips.

“I’m _telling you_ ,” he manages, gruff and hoarse, and Tormund’s eyes are so dark they’re almost black, “that you’re going to fuck me, and fuck me well. You can’t take me in front of those lords, but you’ll fuck me until I can’t sit in front of them without feeling you still in me.”

“There you are,” Tormund snarls, grin sharp as a knife, and the praise in his voice _burns._ “My wild little crow. Feral little thing.”

And Jon feels it; he’s absolutely breathless with it. High on their victory still, high on the fact that he even has this heart in his hands, Jon is turning from man to wolf to something new, something that speaks only Tormund’s name and knows only the taste of him on his tongue.

His chest flushes with the praise and he leans over to grab the oil still left on the nightstand. Tormund bites at his ribs when he stretches to the side, hips straining under Jon’s legs, one huge hand cupping his cock and trapping it against his belly.

Jon groans and ignites down to the marrow of his bones when slick fingers trail down over his ass. He clutches at strong shoulders, noses over Tormund’s temple and through his snow-damp hair as a single finger sinks into him, and the wildling immediately finds the spot inside him that makes him keen.

He’s impatient this time, impatient as Tormund works him open with the same dedication he always has. A fever rips through Jon and he whines, bristling when the wildling hushes him gently, lips trailing over his collarbone. Jon tugs at the strings of his breeches until he can wrap a sure hand around his cock, and the growl he gets in response all but clatters down his spine.

“That’s enough,” he breathes into the wildling’s hair. Some new fiend grips him now, a brave thing with red eyes and sharp teeth, and Jon thinks it might be the wolf. “Let me.”

“Little crow…”

Jon rolls his hips back, guides himself over the head of Tormund’s cock and draws the wildling’s hand away. Tormund gazes up at him in something close to rapture, and it does burn when he starts to sink down, but never enough to make him stop. He works himself open over Tormund’s cock with slow, agonizing rolls of his hips, one hand curling into the thick toss of the wildling’s hair as he bites his lip and holds a constant, biting groan deep in his throat.

It sends fissions of heat through his thighs, makes his stomach coil up like a snake. Tormund’s hands frame his ribs, hover over his hips, and he breathes out harsh and quick against Jon’s throat as he finally, finally seats himself fully over him. The wildling moans, a thick thing that makes Jon’s skin pebble with gooseflesh and his cock jump, and he feels drunker than he ever has on wine.

If Jon thought there was power in having that cock in his mouth, this far outstrips it. He’s been over Tormund before, but not like this; not with this much strength or confidence, and he supposes that must be the wild thing in him, the thing that Tormund coaxes out with tongue and teeth and impossible heat.

He wants to watch it grow. He wants to love his wildling every way, any way he can. Jon stays right where he is for a beat, reveling in the fullness between his thighs, and the wildling growls like he’s about to pin him to the floor and take what he wants.

Jon knows he won’t, not until he begs for it, but he can feel the need coiling in the tight clench of his muscles, and a slow smile unfurls across his lips when Tormund nips at his ear and his hips strain up beneath him.

“Did you need something?” he asks lightly, surprised his voice is so even, and Tormund’s nostrils flare. He grips Jon’s hips with enough force to bruise, and he gasps with it, a thrill racing up his spine.

“You’d sit on this cock for hours, wouldn’t you? Keep me hard, keep me warm.”

His teeth graze Jon’s throat, and then his hand splays over it, huge and strong enough to crush the life from him. Jon traps a groan between his teeth and he shuts his eyes when his head is forced slowly back, as if Tormund is watching the smooth unfurling of his muscle and memorizing every moment of it.

A hot tongue rolls up the line of his pulse, and Jon’s hips crest unbidden. The wildling laughs, low and predatory; this is a new game, and one Jon will delight in every time. His skin is sticky with sweat, too tight across his bones, and he wants so badly to ride Tormund until he’s painting his chest white, but something stays him.

It’s the way the wildling touches him, he thinks. The way he dominates him even as Jon keeps him reined, his cock kept inside him and one hand in his hair. They are a pair of serpents, two stags with horns locked in the gentlest, most sacred battle. It’s a play for power, one that ends without blood, and Jon clutches at the wildling’s heart as he drags his cheek over Tormund’s, breathing as even as he can.

Tormund’s strong thighs are perfectly steady under him, but his hips keep twitching, and Jon is perfectly still but his cock keeps weeping, and it feels like they’ve truly slipped into a world where no other living thing could find them. Jon is overheated, so much that the mere light from the fire in the hearth is enough to draw more sweat to his brow.

“I’ve told you,” Jon murmurs, “you’re the best thing I’ve ever felt.”

His lover runs his lips over his jaw, and the softest pressure bears down against the sides of his throat. Jon gasps into it, and Tormund leans back, watching him with a raised brow, watching him like a wolf might a limping doe.

“I can _smell you_ ,” he purrs, “how wet you are. How much you need it.”

Jon grits his teeth against a curse, hips lurching, and Tormund grins, slow and easy. He leans into his huge palm, begging for the pressure, begging to be made utterly breathless. The wildling moves his free hand around to his lower back, brings his mouth down to the scar over his heart, and Jon moans with all the force of a man dying for it.

“Take it,” the wildling commands against his heart, and then he’s snaking back up to nip at Jon’s ear and he’s unraveling so fast. “Take it, sweet thing. It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

And Jon – Jon snaps. He’s never been a patient man, and Tormund knows exactly how to speak to the sweet feral thing in him. He knows how to tempt him out, how to pull his soul to the surface of his skin until he feels truly alive again and his scars mean nothing but a path for his wildling’s teeth to follow.

His hips roll, muscles sighing in relief, and Tormund looks like he’d like nothing more than to devour Jon heart-first. He snarls and laughs, a booming, victorious sound that sings his blood to a boil and makes fire unfurl down his spine.

Sweat turns his skin to diamond, and the air is so thick he can barely keep his lungs full. He chases the edge of his climax, taking and taking as his wildling utters prayers of his name, as the world dissolves and a soft voice at the back of Jon’s mind murmurs, _this is your forever, now._

And he’d been brave enough to take it. A keen breaks from his lips and he drags blunt nails down Tormund’s chest, over muscle and hair and scars, and the wildling thrusts up into him as he rolls down and Jon is seeing white.

He comes undone groaning out a grating, “ _Tor,”_ and his spine feels as if it’s trying to shoot out of his body with the force of it. His wildling soothes him through it with soft _good boy’s_ that make him ache all over again and his heart launch into his mouth.

Body utterly alight, head spinning as his breaths kick out of his chest, Jon becomes brave enough to put a hand to Tormund’s throat. He can feel the rapid approach of his lover’s climax, feels it in the way Tormund’s hips grow desperate and his voice drops impossibly low when he moans Jon’s name.

And the red-eyed little thing in him cackles and snaps its maw. He puts pressure under Tormund’s chin, until he’s the one baring his throat. Jon rises up over the wildling’s lap, and those shrewd eyes narrow as he lifts off his cock and stays there, towering over him on his knees.

His heart is racing, his stomach still clenching and his skin still too tight as he runs a thumb over his wildling’s bottom lip. Tormund groans, reaching for his cock, and Jon catches his wrist and tangles his fingers into his beard. The wildling’s nose furls into a snarl, but his eyes are so bright, ever devoted as they gaze up at him.

“You _earned this_ ,” Jon says then, thick and breathless all at once. “You earned a _King_. When you fuck me, I want you thinking of that. I want you thinking of the fact that the only crown that matters to me is the one _you_ put on my head.”

The moment holds, and Tormund’s brow creases, his chest hitching. Jon runs a thumb over his cheek and then the moment breaks, and he’s being swept up in strong, thick arms and pushed down to the furs. Tormund grips his throat and takes his lips in a stunningly tender kiss, the kind of kiss that makes Jon’s toes curl and his blood run from hot to cold to hot again.

And then the wildling is fucking into him and Jon thinks he might be flying and falling all at once. He’s all but bent in half, Tormund’s hands caught behind his knees, his bulk pinning him down – he couldn’t be moved, even if he wanted to.

Jon tangles his fingers into his hair and the white heat takes him without warning, makes him spill again over his stomach with a ragged shout that Tormund swallows and growls through. His muscles whine and ache and he’s definitely going to feel this for a week, feels it even now, and it’s the only thing he wants to know for the rest of his days.

When his wildling topples over the edge into his climax he rears back and drags Jon close by the hips, fucking him through it with a primal fire in his eyes and lip curled into a sneer. Jon feels weak with it, feels like he could be brought back to life by it, and all the pain in the world is worth just this, and this alone.

Softness settles over them in the afterglow. Tormund gently lowers Jon’s thighs, humming low and soothing when he slides carefully out of him and Jon winces just a touch. The wildling rises to strip out of his tunic, tossing his golden bands onto the nightstand and kicking out of his boots.

Jon cranes his neck to watch him, feeling dewy and raw, and when Tormund catches him staring he grins and reaches out to gently follow the curve of his cheek.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry.”

The wildling does. He returns from their washroom with a soft linen and a small bowl of water, and Jon catches his lip between his teeth when he starts to clean him. His brow furrows, and he reaches out to trace a bruise on Jon’s throat.

“Did I hurt you, my sweet thing?”

“No,” Jon says hoarsely. “Come back. I’m fine.”

Tormund sets the cloth and the bowl aside. He strips out of his breeches before rolling into the furs, and Jon beckons him close with his hands in his beard, until the wildling is back between his legs and his weight pins him down. He noses over Tormund’s collarbone as the wildling smooths back his hair, lips grazing his brow.

“Was that alright?” Jon murmurs, and the wildling laughs hard enough the bed shakes.

“If I could have you sat on my cock forever, Jon, I would,” he says, and Jon glows with heat, running a hand over his chest.

“When we go north – when you build us that house. We won’t leave for weeks.”

Those blue eyes soften, and Tormund runs his knuckles under Jon’s jaw.

“You truly want that?”

“Of course I do,” Jon huffs. “It’s all that kept me standing, at the end. It was the mere thought of you that saved me, Tor, not the other way around.”

“You keep saying shit that makes me want to bury myself inside you and never come back out, Jon Snow.” The wildling rolls onto his side, gathering Jon up close, and he noses up into Tormund’s throat like a kitten. “I love you, sweet thing. I don’t say it enough.”

“You do.” Jon tugs at his beard. “In different ways. But you do. I think you always have. It just – took a while for me to learn how to hear it. But now I hear it all the time.”

Tormund slides a hand into his hair, and Jon thinks of the ship, of falling into the ice and waking in the strong arms that kept the dead and the dragons away. His throat goes thick, but for the first time in so long, it’s not with grief.

He wriggles up in the wildling’s grasp and slides his arms around his shoulders, nosing across his brow as his heart tries to work out how to climb into him and stay there. Calloused hands he knows so well run over him, hands that call to the mad, red-eyed thing inside him and know how to hold it. Hands that break and mend, hands that guide and heal.

Jon, body worked and going heavy, breathes out Tormund’s name as the edge of sleep comes rolling in, and hears his own echoed back in a voice that could temper fire.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all ever seen kristofer's suit pics? like what the fuck am i right


End file.
